You'll See
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: AU post-1x15, Ryan wakes up in the hospital.
1. Chapter 1

**Universe**: _The Following_ present, post-1x15, alternate

**Rating: **PG-13, language

**Pairing:** Claire Matthews/Ryan Hardy

**Summary**: Post-1x15, Ryan wakes up in the hospital.

**Author's Note**: I recently scrolled through the Ryan Hardy tag on tumblr because apparently I like to make myself miserable. _However_, this is actually (SURPRISE!) a happy fic! It is an attempt to turn pain into joy, instead of just turning pain into more pain, as is my MO. It's kind of like a "What if this damn show didn't kill off all its most intriguing characters before their storylines were fully played out?"-type of scenario. Please enjoy!

(PS: I am working on the next chapter of _Cheers_, I really am! It's just taking some time.)

. . .

. . .

It was very hard for him to wake up at first. There were a lot of voices in his head telling him to go back to sleep, to rest, to leave it all for another day. And he almost did. He almost let himself slide back into that simple, inviting blackness, but then he remembered what had happened the last time the world around him went dark, and his eyes opened with a snap.

The room around him came into sharp focus at once, but then the blinding light hit him after so many hours asleep and he had to force them shut again. He scrunched up his face, barely peeking out from slits beneath his forehead.

He was in a hospital, he could tell that much, as his eyes slowly adjusted to all the fluorescent light in the room. He was in a hospital, lying in a bed and dressed in one of those flimsy gowns. He could feel an oxygen line wrapped around his nose and ears, and—_God, there it was_—a dull but incredibly present ache in his abdomen. He guessed it didn't hurt too badly yet because he was probably still doped up on painkillers. He dreaded the moment when they'd stop giving them to him, and tried his best to fall back asleep before anyone noticed he was awake.

When he closed his eyes again, however, Molly's face appeared before him—as suddenly as she'd appeared in his apartment—with that eager look in her eye and that long, sharp knife in her hand. She whispered things about vengeance and _her rights _and how she'd waited _so long _for this moment as she drove the knife into his abdomen…

His eyes flew open again when another woman's face replaced hers.

His vision skipped around the room, but after one turn it was clear he had it all to himself. There was no one here, _she_ wasn't here, _Did that mean—?_

"Hey, look who's finally awake."

Ryan jumped at the voice—he recognized it at once, but hadn't known anyone was here—and then there was Mike Weston, getting up from a chair he'd been sitting in in the corner of the room. Ryan didn't know how his eyes had passed over him before, but he didn't care any longer.

"Claire—" he began.

"She's alive," Mike answered before he could even ask. Ryan took the slight smile playing on the edge of his lips as a good sign, instead of the naïveté that had been the younger agent's exasperating trademark up until just a few weeks ago.

"Why isn't she here?" Ryan asked, the words scratching at the inside of his dry throat as he forced them out.

Mike's smile faded at that question. He took a couple steps towards Ryan, and stared at the mismatched linoleum floor as he answered, "She's in the intensive care unit right now." He said the words as shamefully as if he were detailing a personal character flaw, or as if Claire's situation were his fault. "The doctors said that—"

"The ICU?" Ryan interrupted. Just the thought of that place made his heart beat faster. He'd never liked hospitals, and he hated ICUs even more than operating rooms. Too many people suffered and died in them. Too many people never came out alive. "What's she doing in the ICU?" he demanded to know, even though the answer was quite obvious. Taking a chef's knife to the back tended to require one to be put under twenty-four-seven care.

He didn't bother waiting for Mike's reply before he started sitting up and untangling himself from all the devices that kept him strapped in bed. If she was somewhere else, he was going to find her and make sure she was okay—once he got all of this off him. There was an oxygen line around his head and a heart rate monitor on his finger and a number of other wires placed all around his body and connected to a handful of machines that surrounded him. He pulled them all off without a second thought.

The IV stung as he ripped it out of his arm, but he didn't care. Mike was running towards now, shouting at him with words like _Stop _and _Clam down, _but Ryan ignored him just like he ignored all the shrill beeps and alarms that had started going off the moment he'd began discarding wires. He was more concerned with the footsteps he could hear hurrying towards his door. He hoped he could make it out into the hall before whoever was coming showed up.

But Ryan wasn't even on his feet by the time by the time the door burst open and a heavy-set woman barely a decade older than him rushed inside. When she realized that it was his fault the alarms had gone off and she had been called in—and that this was not, in fact, a legitimate medical emergency needing her immediate attention—she put her hands on her hips and ordered, "_Sir, lay back down right now_" so loudly Ryan half-expected the walls to shake and collapse around him.

For a second, he froze, too shocked to even say anything. No one had talked to him like that in a very long time, and he wasn't even sure how to respond.

The nurse took advantage of his surprise, bustling over and pushing him back into bed before he could say a word. "Lay back down," she ordered, "and watch your stitches. No, _watch your stitches,_" she snapped as he tried to twist his body to the side to move. "If you rip them out, neither your doctors or your wallet or your stomach will be very thankful." She scowled at the array of discarded tubes and wires he'd cast off in his hurry to leave. "And nor will I," she warned in a tone that made Ryan think it would be tempting his long-awaited fate to anger this woman.

Ryan watched her in silence as she busied herself with reattaching all the leads he'd ripped out, and finding a new vein to insert his IV into. He frowned at the resulting pinch but didn't complain. He doubted any patients ever complained to this nurse and lived to tell about it.

After she hooked up back up to all the machines, she pulled out the chart that had been hanging off his bed and examined it. He listened to the scribbling of her pen on the paper for a quiet minute before deciding to push his luck. He couldn't sit here and wait any longer for news on Claire, especially if this woman was going to keep him confined in bed.

"Excuse me," he began, making a very forced attempt at being polite in order to win her favor, "but there was a woman I was brought in here with. I need to know if she's okay. Her name's—"

"Yes, I know her name, Mr. Hardy." She eyed him over the chart she was writing in as if she was looking at something incredibly displeasing. "You two are quite infamous around here—you're the reason we've got armed guards patrolling this hospital 'round the clock and paparazzi and TV crews clamoring outside our doors for days." Her eyes narrowed down at him like he was the one who had ordered the gun-toting personnel and called in the news agencies. "I do enjoy being frisked for knives every time I come in here to check on you. Really, I do. It doesn't disrupt my day at all."

"Well, it's a hell of a lot better than being stabbed with one," Ryan muttered under his breath before he could catch himself. Luckily, the nurse didn't reply, even though he knew she must've heard. He softened his voice a second later, not caring that he was begging: "Can you please just tell me if she's all right?"

The nurse pursed her lips for a moment before answering, as if she was actually weighing whether or not she should tell him. Ryan fought back every urge to forcibly procure a response from her.

It felt like an eternity to him before the nurse answered crisply, "She's doing okay so far as I know." Ryan closed his eyes in relief, and felt his whole body relax at the news. "_But_," the nurse added, making the word sound like a warning in a way that made Ryan wonder if she'd been reading his mind and was now playing into his fears, "I'm on your case, not hers, so I'm not the supreme authority. You'll know the situation when I know it—which will be after she's released from the ICU, and not before."

Ryan sat up a little straighter, nervousness and excitement making his hands feel weak. "When will that be?" _Please say today. Please say today. Please say today._

"I don't know," the nurse replied. "Just be patient and you'll know when you know."

Ryan stared at her, open-mouthed, as she turned around and walked away. He didn't even have time to compose himself before she headed for the door, telling him that the doctor would be in in a moment.

"What the hell?" Ryan called out the second the door closed behind her, his head swiveling to Mike. "_This _is why I hate hospitals! Since when did nurses get so bitchy?"

"Since they had to deal with you, I'd bet," Mike replied.

"I've been awake for two minutes!" Ryan protested. "What have I done in the last two minutes that set her off?"

"Well, you pulled out all your tubes, for one," Mike replied. He sighed, a second later, scuffing the edge of his shoe against the floor. "And, like she said," he began heavily, "you brought a lot of problems with you. No one's happy about all the agents around. The hospital staff eyes them like they're part of some sort of police state." He shook his head. "Honestly, they're just here for protection, but apparently that's a concept too far from people's grasp."

Ryan was about to ask something more—he wanted to know about those journalists the nurse mentioned at the doors, and if anyone had said anything to them—but before he could speak, the doctor came in.

He looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, but his strong handshake and warm voice made up for his graying hair and oncoming wrinkles. He introduced himself breezily as Dr. Mark Kapuski and began by asking Ryan how he felt—to which he answered, "Alright," not knowing exactly what else to say. His own well-being was not his primary concern at the moment, but the doctor kept up a steady stream of questions and information and small talk that Ryan didn't get a chance to ask about Claire until Dr. Kapuski had turned and headed for the door.

Ryan called out to him, hoping he'd have better luck with the doctors than the nurses. Kapuski seemed friendly, cheerful—he seemed like one to bend the rules in this particular situation, and so Ryan tried his hand as best he knew how.

"Doctor, excuse me, but I had a question—if you have a second?"

"Of course." Dr. Kapuski turned around with a smile. "What can I help you with?"

"Well, I was wondering…" Ryan licked his lips, praying this would actually work this time. "I was brought into the ER with a woman—her name's Claire Matthews. She has blonde hair, she was—she was stabbed in the back." He swallowed; his stomach twisted at the memory and his stitches burned. "I'm sure you've seen her on the news," he added, hating to capitalize on that fact.

The doctor's eyebrows had begun furrowing the moment Ryan started speaking; by the end, his face was clouded over as if a storm was brewing above his head. "Yes," he murmured, his earlier cheer subdued, "Pam mentioned you were asking after her earlier…" Ryan waited as the doctor paused, hoping to gather some real information here, but all Kapuski ended up doing was grimacing. "I'm sorry. I understand your situation was very dire, but—I _am_ sorry—I can't give personal information out about patients unless it's to their family member. Especially with all these reporters around, we can't afford to let anything slip. The FBI officers that visited with our hospital administrator were very clear on that front. And it's not only her," he added, as if it were a comfort, "your status is to be kept under lock and key as well.

"I really am very sorry," the doctor said again when he saw the crestfallen look on his patient's face. "I would like to tell you in detail about her condition, but I've been informed more than once that I will cease to be an employee at this hospital if I spread any information about either of you to anyone."

The doctor tried to apologize again, but Ryan shook him off. The poor man looked as pained as Ryan felt; he didn't deserve to have this pressure put atop him along with everything else.

"It's fine," Ryan muttered, shaking his head His eyes fell to his bed sheets. "I understand." He forced himself to meet his doctor's eyes. "Thank you for everything."

Dr. Kapuski nodded, but Ryan could tell his smile was faked and not genuine anymore. He left without another word.

The second the door closed behind him, Ryan turned to Mike. He'd made up his mind minutes ago, when Kapuski was detailing all the reasons why he couldn't help in the least. "You gotta get me out of here," he demanded at once. "I need to go see her. I need to know how she is."

"I told you how she is," Mike replied. "And the nurse told you—"

"I don't mean to be an ass," Ryan began.

"Too late."

"—but I need to see her to believe either of you. I heard you, I heard both of you, but I need to _know_ she's alive, _know _that she's still breathing. I have to _see _her, Mike."

The agent seemed to waver for a moment, and again Ryan felt hope rising in him, but then Mike shook his head resolutely. "I can't. Like the doctors said, we've all been given very specific instructions. The Director of the FBI was here, Ryan. He said to keep you—"

"Fuck whatever Franklin said," Ryan growled. He looked Weston in the eye, trying to judge his luck. He couldn't get into the ICU alone—he couldn't even get out of bed alone—so he'd need Mike's help if he was going to get anywhere. But he knew better than to try begging on the younger agent. Mike knew him too well for that. "You know if you don't help me, I'll still get out anyway," he warned. He glanced down at his abdomen. "I'll probably rip these stitches open trying to get to wherever she is, but you know I'll do it."

Mike stared at him for a long time, weighing his options. Ryan could tell by the look in the other man's eyes that he was remembering the last time they'd argued like this over his getting to Claire. Ryan had pointed a gun at the agent's face and threatened to shoot him dead if he took another step to follow him. He hadn't been joking then and he wasn't joking now. Finally, Mike sighed heavily, muttered, "Wait here," and disappeared out the door. He returned just a few seconds later, pushing a wheelchair through the door. Ryan almost opened his mouth to say he could walk fine on his own, thanks, but then he felt the ache in his side and realized that he probably couldn't take even a step without that wound flaring up with debilitating pain.

He didn't say a word as Mike helped him out of the bed and into the wheelchair, but watched him closely as he scribbled something on a scrap piece of paper. Mike folded it half width-wise and left it sitting in the middle of the deserted bed. Ryan caught a glimpse of it just before Mike pushed him out the door: _In room 206. Sorry, couldn't stop him._

"What happened to the nurse?" Ryan asked as the moved into the hallway, his eyes scanning all the people rushing around them and trying to pick out the woman who so resented him. He kept his voice quiet so not as to court fate, as if just mentioning her would cause her to appear.

"Nurse Pam dealing with another patient," Mike replied, moving the wheelchair smoothly but quickly through the crowd and towards the elevator. "I'd say be thankful that there's someone choking on the other end of the hall, but I won't because I know you _would_ be thankful."

Ryan didn't say anything, though he silently thought Weston had made the right decision.

"We're headed to the second floor?" he asked once they came to a stop in front of the elevator. He couldn't help himself from looking over his shoulder for pursuers, even though it irritated his stitches. He drummed his fingers impatiently against the armrests of the wheelchair.

"That's where the ICU is," Mike answered.

There were a couple of doctors in the lift with them, and a man and a woman—those two were clearly visitors—and though none of them had gotten on on the same floor as he had, he kept his head ducked down in case any of them might recognize him. He wasn't getting sent back to that room alone just a minute after he got out.

"How'd you know the room number?" Ryan asked quietly after they'd gotten off the elevator and moved onto the ICU floor. The number had been rolling over and over again inside his head since he'd seen Mike write it down. _206. 206. 206. 206._

"Because I've visited her before," Mike replied patiently. "She's in room 206."

"Well, what if they've moved her?" Ryan asked, suddenly panicking. They moved people around hospitals all the time, especially people in the ICU. People needing round-the-clock treatment came in all the time. What if she'd been moved to a different floor, or a different wing, to make space for other? "We should ask someone," he decided. "If she's been moved, we need to know the room—"

"She hasn't been moved," Mike interrupted.

The finality with which he spoke rubbed Ryan the wrong way for some reason. "How do you know?" he demanded.

"Because I was with her a half-hour ago," Mike replied, sounding very much like Ryan's questions were grating on his patience. In any other situation, that would've made the former agent laugh at the irony, but right now he was only confused.

"Why were you with her?" he asked, unable to hide the incredulity from his voice.

"Because I wanted to be," Mike answered simply. "She's got no one here and neither do you—everyone's in DC. So I'm with you mostly at night, and her mostly during the day. But I check on you after lunch—like I was doing when you woke up—and look in on her around one or two in the morning."

Ryan swallowed, struggling to process all that. Had Mike really been at their bedsides constantly since they'd been admitted to the hospital? Not only his, but Claire's, too?

"It wasn't easy at first," Mike continued, "since the hospital's pretty strict about their visiting hours. But the guys at the doors knew me, and I have my badge to show off if I get any other questions. Most people don't argue with a federal agent, not even Pam."

Ryan wanted to ask him why he had gone through all that trouble, but before he could, another question came to mind that was much more important. _She's got no one here—everyone's in DC. _"Is Joey okay? Did anyone get to him?"

"He's fine," Mike answered at once. "He's still safe in Washington. As is your sister, by the way. They flew her up just after they heard about what happened to you and Claire. They thought the worst, so everyone circled the wagons, so to speak… But there haven't been any more attacks."

"How long has it been since… since it happened?"

"About a day and a half," Mike answered. "You were in surgery for part of the night, and you've been sleeping it off ever since—aided by some morphine, too, I think. But they started weaning you off earlier in the day, and here you are."

"And Claire? Is she awake too?"

Mike shook his head. "No. Well, not completely, at least," he corrected himself. "The nurses said she went in and out a couple times—not long enough to say anything—but they upped her morphine just in case. They said it'd be better if she slept off the pain a while longer."

Ryan swallowed, trying to digest that news in any way that wouldn't spell disaster. "That sounds dangerous," he finally concluded. "All of that sounds dangerous."

Weston remained calm behind him. "Not really, according to the doctors. She's on a lot of pain meds, like I said. Some slipping between consciousness and unconsciousness is to be expected, apparently. They just don't want her waking up yet because of how bad the pain will be, I guess." Mike didn't sound like he wholly believed it, and Ryan tried not to let his tone make him any more nervous.

"How is she doing, otherwise?" he asked softly, quietly bracing himself for the worst. She had been stabbed in the back; maybe she was paralyzed now. Maybe she'd never walk again. Maybe she'd lost an organ. Maybe she was going to slip into a coma. Maybe she already had.

"She's good," Mike surprised him by saying. He actually sounded chipper, and Ryan tried to turn around to look at him, but his stitches hurt too bad when he turned so he faced forward again. "I mean, considering," Mike added a second later, sounding a little embarrassed. "It could've been a lot worse than it is."

"And what _is_ it?" Ryan asked, impatient now.

"A lot of blood loss, mostly, from what I heard. Like, _a lot_, a lot. She was lying on that floor for a long time, and you know how fast blood—" he broke off suddenly, as if realizing again who he was talking to.

Ryan let himself be wheeled past a couple more doors so he wouldn't yell when he replied, "I know she was lying on that floor for a long time. I was right there with her. I passed out before I ever heard the sirens."

Mike stayed silent as he pushed Ryan down the hall, not even bothering with an apology this time. They both knew it wouldn't be appreciated. "She's going to be okay," he finally said. "The stab was really deep, but it didn't puncture anything. So she has some stitches and she'll have a lot of soreness and pain, but after she goes through recovery, they said she'd be as good as new." He stopped pushing, and Ryan realized as Mike reached for the doorknob on his left that they were here. "She's going to be fine, Ryan," Mike said as he wheeled him inside.

That was a better apology than any Ryan had ever received.

. . .

He expected to see her bloodied and bruised and cut up when he walked in—irrational, he knew, since she hadn't been attacked like that—but she'd been so close to death that he thought there should have been some outward marking to acknowledge it. But she looked perfectly fine, lying in that hospital bed, as he rolled over to her. Her face was spotless, her arms clean and unbandaged. It even looked like someone had taken the time to comb her hair.

He came to a stop beside her bed, and for a long time, he just stared at her, reveling in the fact that no one had lied to him and that she actually was alive. He reached out for her hand, ignoring the pain that flared up in his abdomen as he bent forward to be closer to her.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, finally breaking the silence, which felt so oppressive and damning in the room. He felt like he'd suffocate if he didn't break it and apologize for everything he'd done wrong, all the pain he'd caused her. His voice was hoarse and his throat was tight; tears that had previously just threated to marshal themselves started to fall as he apologized again and again. He wept for a while, grateful that she wasn't awake to hear him.

. . .

He must've dozed off sometime afterwards, because the next thing he knew, a door was opening and a woman was yelling at him.

"You do know that no one's allowed in this ICU except expressly permitted, don't you?" she called out, somehow sounding both authoritative and nervous at the same time. "We have an armed guard at the door to stop everyone and anyone who comes through. You need a slip from the _FBI_ and those do not come easy." She paused, and Ryan could hear her gathering her breath in the silent room. "Can I ask how in the hell you got in here, wheels?"

Ryan shut his eyes, reluctantly turning his head around to meet yet another nurse who seemed hell-bent on keeping him away from Claire. He didn't even have to say anything, however, because the twenty-something brunette nurse he was met with recognized him immediately and stopped yelling.

"Oh," she murmured, looking into his face for the first time. The annoyance in her voice had disappeared; all was left was quiet awe. "You were the one that was with her."

Ryan nodded, but didn't offer any more information. He didn't want to have to go through it all with this stranger. Especially not when there are more important things they could be discussing. "Do you know when she's going to wake up?" he asked, watching her. With all his time in hospitals, he'd learned that the way doctors looked when they spoke was nearly as important as what they said. He assumed the same applied for nurses.

"We aren't sure," the woman answered. She glanced over to Claire as she spoke, but Ryan was relieved to see no anxiety apparent in her expression. "Hopefully sometime later today or tomorrow. We're going to start weaning her off the stronger pain meds as of tonight, so we're hoping she'll surface soon. Things weren't looking too good there for a while, but all the doctors seem confident that she'll pull through, so off the meds it is."

"And you? Do you think she'll pull through?" Ryan questioned, sensing that she didn't hold the same mindset. He could already feel himself sweating. What if this woman was right when all the others were wrong? What if Claire wasn't as safe as they thought, even with armed guards outside?

A sick thought flashed in his head: What if this woman was out to finish her off?

Molly had been a nurse, too, and she had worked in an intensive care unit just like this one. If she could work in a place like this, how many other people were here—people who liked killing, torturing, and hurting others for amusement or power?

"I do," the nurse answered, and for a second Ryan almost screamed, thinking she was answering his unspoken question and not his spoken one. It took him a minute to calm down and come back to earth; thankfully, the nurse busied herself with writing some tings in Claire's chart so she didn't notice. "I do think she'll pull through," she finally answered, tucking the binder away and turning to him. "I've worked in the ICU for about three years now, and she is nowhere near the worst I've seen. We're just keeping her here as a precaution, mostly because we're worried about how painful it will be for her when she wakes up. You were pretty cut-and-dry when you came in—horrible injury, of course—but the surgery wasn't too bad. It didn't take too long to repair. Hers was another story."

"Tell me what happened?" Ryan surprised himself by actually asking instead of ordering.

"Well…" The nurse seemed to debate with herself for a moment before giving in: "Your wound was more straightforward—once and done. Whoever went after you did it quick and relatively clean—"

_Only because that was supposed to be the first stab of many, _Ryan thought to himself but didn't say aloud. _It was only quick and clean because she wanted to take her time killing me._

"—but hers was a good deal more ragged. The knife didn't come out so easily; it tore up a lot of skin and muscle on its way out, did some real damage. She was lucky it didn't puncture anything or hit her spine—really lucky about that—but even so, just because it didn't nick anything major doesn't mean she's not going to have to go through a long recovery. Even after it heals, she'll still feel it." She eyed him apologetically. "You might, too."

Ryan didn't say anything to that—he'd expected as much; he knew he'd feel this injury for years to come even without the pain—and the nurse thankfully didn't press the point. Quietly, she introduced herself as Maggie, and he appreciated that she gave him a chance to say his name as well, even though they both knew she'd known his name the minute she'd looked at him. Conversation petered out after that, and for some time, they just stood in silence and watched Claire as she lay unmoving in her bed.

"Is it true what the papers said?" the nurse finally asked, long after Ryan had lost track of the time. Her voice was quiet, worried—so unlike the others that had always been eager and boisterous and seeking a thrill. Maggie just sounded sad. "Is it really true that one of those crazy cult people broke into your house and tried to kill you both while you were sleeping?"

"We were about to eat dinner, actually," Ryan replied without a second thought. He paused, wondering if it was okay to say these things to this woman. But what did it matter if she went to press with that information? It was too inconsequential to make any difference. "We ordered Chinese," he murmured, remembering the meals that had been delivered but never eaten or even opened. "There wasn't any food in my place so we ordered."

The nurse nodded. She never took her eyes off Claire. "The attacker came with the delivery, then," she concluded quietly.

"Actually no," Ryan replied, not able to stop talking for some reason. It actually made him feel good to get it all out. He tried telling himself this was a dry run for the debrief in DC later, but it honestly just felt good to relieve himself of the information. "The delivery guy was just a really convenient distraction for her. Claire was showering, so I went to answer the door, and Molly slipped in…" He laughed ruefully. "God, I don't even know how. I don't know how she did it." He wondered if the agents had figured that out yet. "It seemed like she appeared out of thin air." He'd be unable to believe his own horrid luck if he hadn't been living with it for so many decades now. "Sorry," he muttered, shaking it off. "I should be telling you all this." He thought of what the Bureau would say if they knew what he was saying to another civilian. How much of that information he'd just blurted out was classified and hidden from the public? "I _really _shouldn't be telling you all this."

The nurse turned to meet his eye, giving him a small smile. "It's okay, I won't be spreading it around."

Ryan sighed, grateful. "Thank you," he told her.

"I'd be careful, though, with what you say," she added, moving around the room to straighten some things up, "because there are a lot of people that _would_ spread it around, given half a chance." She tilted her head towards the window, which a shade had been drawn very tightly against. "There's a lot of press out there and they've been telling our staff in pretty explicit terms how much money they'd be willing to shell out to anyone who's got the_ 'real story_.'" She grimaced. "And pictures. You know how people love pictures. We have to check our cell phones outside the door when we come in here, and we get searched for cameras daily." She shook her head, her eyes drifting back to her patient in the bed. "You have no idea what some people will pay to see someone else suffer. It's sick."

Ryan swallowed, realizing just how much his and Claire's presence was turning this hospital upside down. He wished Pam were there to hear it when he said, "I'm sorry for all that. You know I didn't ask for—"

Maggie smiled easily, brushing off his apology. In his head, he imagined Pam, with her hands on her hips, waiting out the entirety of his apology until he awkwardly stuttered to a finish. "It's okay. It isn't your fault—the guards and the precautions, I mean. They're here to protect you guys, and after what you've been through, I don't see a problem with it. But sometimes it can be a bit aggravating. Especially for some of the older nurses," she added. She threw a knowing glance Ryan's way that made him wonder if she actually did know about Pam. "They don't like disruptions; they like the hospital to work the way the hospital has always worked, and I understand that. But I haven't been here too long—I can adapt."

"Lucky she has you, then," Ryan told her.

"Lucky she has you, too," she replied easily. Maggie looked him over for a minute, and he could see her brain working behind her puzzles expression. "How long have you been together?"

"Uh, it's…" Ryan smiled awkwardly. He still wasn't sure how to explain their relationship to himself, let alone someone else. "It's kind of complicated between us."

"Well, I wouldn't exactly expect it to be simple, with her history." Maggie smiled at his imprecise response, offering kindly, "Somehow I don't think it'll be so complicated when she wakes up and sees you here, though."

"Yeah, if I don't get dragged back to the fifth floor before that happens."

The nurse laughed. "Ah, you've got a real stickler watching you up there, do you? There's a lot of them here, and they're only made worse by the guards. Everyone's scared of making a wrong move and thereby giving the FBI reason look into every nook and cranny of their life." She grinned. "Don't worry; I'll vouch for you if someone comes to cart you away."

"Thank you," Ryan replied, meaning it.

"Well," Maggie sighed, looking at her watch. "I should get going. If you need anything, or is she wakes up, there's a button beside her bed." She indicated a small red button labeled CALL placed into the wall to the left of Claire's bed. "Just press it and I will come running."

Ryan nodded in thanks, and watched her head to the door for a moment, imagining someone else in her place. He knew Sarah had been a doctor, not a nurse, but he pictured her as being just as comforting and kind as Maggie when she dealt with patients. He shut his eyes, rubbing his hands over his face. If Claire were awake, she'd tell him not to dwell on the past; what's done is done. With a sigh, he tried to accept that, and wheeled himself closer to her bedside to settle in for the rest of the day. There was nothing he could do for Sarah anymore, but he could still help Claire. No matter how long it took, he was going to be here waiting for her when she woke up.

. . .

. . .

**Author's Note:** Reviews are most graciously welcome! I should have the next part up either tomorrow or the next day! Thank you SO MUCH for reading! (Huzzah for AUs!)


	2. Chapter 2

**Universe**: _The Following_ present, post-1x15, alternate  
**Rating: **PG-13, language  
**Pairing:** Claire Matthews/Ryan Hardy  
**Summary**: Post-1x15, Ryan wakes up in the hospital.

. . .

. . .

She didn't wake up.

Not the first day he spent with her, nor the first night, nor the following morning.

By the lunchtime the second day he was getting nervous, though all the doctors and nurses assured him that she seemed to be healing on track. _What did it matter that she's healing if she never wakes up? _he wanted to ask. He couldn't shake the feeling that she'd already slipped into a coma and that none of them had noticed. What if he actually _had_lost his chance to save her? What if she was already gone?

Dark thoughts swirled in repetitious circles around his head, but he never said any of them aloud, not even when he was alone with her sleeping form. If he said them aloud, he was scared they might actually come true. He'd always been good at holding things in, anyway—good things, bad things, everything.

Mike stayed with him most of the time as the days dragged on. At first he stayed away, gave Ryan his own space with her, but when it was clear that she wasn't going to miraculously wake up the second he touched her hand or sat by her bedside, Mike began showing up more regularly. He brought Ryan food from the cafeteria at mealtimes, and sat with him during the intervening hours. They didn't talk much—there wasn't anything to talk about that wouldn't be discussed in detail at the debriefing—so mostly they sat and watched her, usually under the guise of watching TV or playing cards. He spent most nights and entire days by her side, only leaving when the doctors politely asked him to step outside while they examined her.

He went back to the fifth floor only when his doctors came to check on him, to examine his wound and deduce if it was healing properly. _It's looking great, _Dr. Kapuski always told him with a smile, and though Ryan knew he was supposed to smile back, he never quite managed it. Some days he managed a quick _Thanks_, but most of the time he was too preoccupied about what Claire's doctors were saying about her while they examined her wound three floors below. Was she looking great too, or did she look terrible? More than once, Ryan had found himself wishing Joey were here—if only so he could get real information about her condition—but he always caught himself before he could wish too hard. Joey should never be made to see his mother like that.

. . .

She only opened her eyes because she couldn't stand having them closed anymore. The bright light that greeted her hurt, but not as much as the darkness she knew she'd have to return to if she closed her eyes again, and all the things that came with it. She'd dreamed more in the past few hours than she had in the past few years and none of them—not one of them—had been pleasant dreams. Now that she finally had the strength and wherewithal to open her eyes, she wasn't going to let them close again.

She looked around herself, her eyes slowly adjusting to the brightness, picking out more and more details with every passing second. It became apparent to her very quickly where she was—and that, miraculously, she was alive—but after that she only had more questions.

She couldn't remember exactly all that had happened—many of the details were still fuzzy, either from the drugs or the pain—and she wished someone were here to explain it all to her. Her eyes had just been about to fall back down, disappointed, when she realized there _was _someone here with her.

She couldn't see his face, resting against her mattress as it was, but she knew at once that it was Ryan, regardless. The last time she'd seen him, he'd been sprawled on the floor with blood pouring out of his stomach. But now he was practically draped across her lap, sleeping—she hoped—peacefully.

Tentatively, she reached out to touch him. He didn't move when her fingertips brushed against his hair; she then ran her hand through it, feeling the realness of it. Of him. She traced the curve of his ear with the pad of her thumb, and smiled when he brushed her away with a free hand and mumbled something in his sleep too quiet for her to hear.

"Hey," she chastised, bending as close to him as she could without hurting herself, "don't you push me away." She ran her fingers through his hair again. "We decided that you were done doing that, remember?"

His head snapped up so quickly she almost yelped—but then he was awake and looking at her and he was _alive _and she suddenly felt like she was going to cry.

"You've been asleep for days," he whispered, his pained voice struggling to get out the words. "I thought you were… Claire, I thought…" He couldn't even finish the sentence, but the implication was there.

She smiled lazily at it. "Nah," she shook her head, "You can't get rid of me that easily." Her eyes brightened as they landed on him, teasing, "Though I do know you've tried very hard."

He wanted so badly to laugh and cry at the same time. Instead, he just shut his eyes, and pressed a very firm kiss to the back of her hand which he held in his. "I'm going to call the nurse, okay?" He whispered the words, hoping to hide his gravelly voice. His lips brushed back and forth against her skin as he spoke. "You need to be checked out."

"Okay," she nodded. He saw her grimace slightly when she tried to shift her weight, and he knew without her having to say that the pain was coming on now. As hard as it had been to watch her lie unconscious for so long, it was harder to watch her in pain, and he found himself almost hoping she'd fall back asleep again, just so she'd be comfortable.

He pushed the call button Maggie had pointed out to him earlier and stayed by her bed, holding her hand, until the doctors came in and told him he had to leave.

. . .

He sat with Mike while the doctors examined her. Weston asked a couple questions about her condition, but as Ryan didn't have any other answer besides _She's awake, _they soon lapsed into silence, waiting and watching; waiting and watching. Ryan was only just beginning to realize how frustrating it must have been for Mike to do this day in and day out while they'd both been under. Someday, once they all left they all left the hospital, Ryan would have to let him know how much he appreciated that. Right now, thought, he couldn't waste a single thought on anything but her.

When the doctors came back out, they didn't say a word to him, just proceeded onto their next patient, but he caught the eye of one of the nurses who smiled, and he took that to mean that Claire's examination had gone well. He wished it had been Maggie—maybe she would've told him something—but then he realized that he didn't need a go-between anymore; Claire was awake and could talk to him.

He moved back into her room as quickly as he could.

. . .

She was sitting up a little taller in bed when he wheeled inside; it looked like someone had lifted the back of it for her so she didn't have to lie down constantly. And it also looked like someone had lowered it, too—it was closer to the ground now, more on Ryan's level now that he was confined to move around in a wheelchair. Ryan wondered if someone had done that for her or if she had specifically asked. Either way, it made his chest hurt a little bit—albeit in a good way.

"Hey." He rolled himself up to her, unable to stop smiling at the mere fact that she was awake and meeting his eyes. He'd never been so happy before to see someone do something as simple as just look at him. "How're you feeling?"

She smiled back, saying the first thing that came to mind. In her still slightly drug-addled mind, it sounded hilarious. "I feel like someone stabbed me in the back."

She meant for him to smile at that—it _was _funny, wasn't it?—but he turned his head away. She suddenly panicked, aware that she'd done something wrong. Not knowing how to fix it, she clutched his hand with hers as tightly as she could, trying to keep him in place before he could move away. She didn't know what she'd do if he left again; didn't know how she'd survive.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, feeling tears prick her eyes. In her head, she swore whatever pain meds she was on that was making her move from happiness to sorrow like a pendulum. Her emotions were erratic enough in a non-drug-induced state. She lifted a hand to wipe under her eyes before he could see. "I'm sorry," she repeated, sniffing. "That wasn't funny. That was a really stupid thing to say. You know I didn't mean—"

"No," he interrupted, "it's okay. Don't apologize; you did nothing wrong. I..." He hung his head for a minute before looking up at her. The shame in his eyes made her gut twist and her stitches itch. "It's my fault. It's all my fault."

"Not everything bad that happens to me is your fault," she whispered, feeling those tears threaten again. She couldn't even blame the drugs this time. "Not everything bad that happens in the world is automatically _your fault_, Ryan."

He shook his head, adamant. "This is," he told her pointedly. "_This_ is my fault."

"Ryan, you couldn't've known he was going to survive that. I mean, they had his teeth on file, _everyone_ thought he was dead; you even got confirmation—"

"It wasn't Joe," he interrupted.

Her forehead furrowed, and her defense suddenly crumbled as she paused to puzzle it out. "Then who..."

He didn't even give her a chance to get the question out before he started talking. He spoke so quickly she had to focus all her waning energy on listening to be able to grasp what he was saying. "A while after we broke up, I started… seeing other people. Nothing serious, nothing meaningful, I was just..." His eyes flickered to hers briefly. "I was trying to get over you, okay?"

Claire nodded. Her mouth was too dry to speak.

"There was one woman, about... about four years after we broke up, she and I started dating... Her name was Molly. Things just worked, you know, between us. It was simple. She liked the things I liked, she didn't press for much, she..." He looked down. "She listened when I got drunk and talked about you and she didn't resent me for it in the morning."

Claire could feel her heart beating faster and faster in her chest and she so hoped he wasn't paying attention to the accompanying beeps the heart monitor was issuing.

Thankfully, he seemed too long in his own thoughts. "I should've realized," he murmured. "I should've realized..."

"Should've realized what?" Claire asked.

"That she wasn't real. That she'd been planted there."

"You mean she was there to—"

"—to spy on me, yes. Like Charlie and Emma for you." He looked so haggard when he leveled his eyes with hers. She wished she felt strong enough to sit up and reach out to him, to pull him close and tell him it was okay. They'd all been fooled. "There was a reason she liked the things I liked, the reason she didn't press for much more than what I gave her..." He sighed, "There was a reason she let me talk about you. She was gaining my trust so that she would be there at the right time. She said Joe promised her she'd get to finish me off when the time came. And I guess the time came." He heaved a breath. "It just didn't end how she'd expected."

Silence hung between them for a few still seconds. Ryan wondered if she was reliving those horrible minutes, too, trapped on the floor of his apartment, bleeding out. Would either of them ever stop reliving that?

"You killed her," Claire said quietly.

Ryan nodded slowly, not seeing any reason to deny it. "Yeah," he answered flatly. "I did." He wondered if she remembered seeing it happen out of the corner of her eye, or if she was just connecting the dots. He didn't feel like asking right now.

He listened to her take a deep breath, thinking that she was only doing so to buy herself time to come to terms with the fact that he was now a bona-fide murderer, and sat silent beside her. She'd spent too much time around men who killed their fellow humans for fun; if she wanted nothing to do with him now, he'd understand. It might make him wish that Joe or Molly had finished the job—that way he'd be out of his misery—but he'd understand.

"Do you… want to talk about it?" she finally asked.

Ryan shook his head, looking down at the floor and refusing to meet her eye. He didn't ever want to talk about it. He wished she didn't have to know about it.

Thankfully—miraculously—she let the subject drop there.

In the silence that followed, she reached out for his hand. He looked up when she squeezed his fingers with hers. "Joey's safe, isn't he?" Though she was trying to put on a brave face, he could see the fear in her eyes when she spoke. "No one's gone after—"

"He's fine," Ryan answered at once, happy at least to be the one to give her that good news. "He's safe; he's still in DC."

"I want to talk to him."

"Okay." Ryan nodded, his head bobbing as he figured out who was best to contact. "I'll have to get Mike; he's the one that knows the number for the office in DC. He should be somewhere outside…" Ryan turned his head, but he couldn't see the agent through the glass panel by the door, but that didn't mean he wasn't out there somewhere. He turned back to Claire, holding her hand tight again for a second before letting go, and promising he'd be back soon. He could feel her eyes on him as he rolled away. It was the most welcome attention he'd received in years.

. . .

He came to a stop outside of her exam room, his eyes looking up and down the hallway. Mike had to be around here somewhere; after all the days he'd spent by their bedsides, Ryan doubted he'd just disappear the moment the two of them awoke.

He'd only been looking for a minute when a familiar voice called out to him. "You looking for somebody, wheels?"

"Yeah," he answered, turning towards the voice. Maggie was walking towards him from the far hallway on the right. "The guy I came down here with—"

"You mean the one that snuck you in?" She smiled, stopping a few feet before him. She pointed across the hall, towards the small cluster of chairs up against the far wall, half-hidden behind the nurses' station. "Mike's over there."

Ryan craned his neck as much as he could without disrupting his stitches and there, sure enough, was Mike, dead asleep.

"You should really let him sleep, you know," Maggie told him, keeping her voice quiet, as if she was worried that their words from so far away might be able to wake him up. "He's been awake for practically three days straight. The only time I see him asleep is when he slips, which, let me tell you, is not often."

"I just need to borrow his phone," Ryan muttered, but he even felt guilty doing just that. Mike really did look like he needed the sleep. After a minute, Ryan bit the bullet and rolled over to him. Mike woke at once after Ryan shook his shoulder, and handed over his phone freely, pointing out the number. He had such dark bags under his eyes he looked like someone had punched him in both eyes. Ryan would've felt worse about waking him up if he hadn't looked back once he'd reached Claire's door—Mike was already asleep again.

. . .

While Claire talked with Joey, Ryan headed back up to the fifth floor. Pam had been pestering him through Maggie for the last couple hours that they needed to check up on him, and he'd staunchly ignored every summons. But with Claire occupied with talking to her son, he figured it was a good time to get the check-up over with.

It took a bit longer this time, as they wanted to make sure everything was still on track even after Ryan had refused to meet with them for most of the day, but when Ryan returned to the second floor, Claire was still on the phone with Joey. She smiled when he rolled in, but took her time finishing her call. Ryan gave her space, parked himself on the far end of the room, and amused himself with thinking of how happy she would finally be to go home with her son after so many weeks apart.

By the time the call ended, she was yawning.

"You should get some sleep," he told her, rolling up to her bedside again. "You look exhausted."

"I feel exhausted," she tried to answer, but even that was swallowed by another yawn, and he raised his eyebrows at her as if to say, _See? _"But I don't feel like going to sleep yet." Her hand reached out for his. "I want to stay awake with you," she murmured.

"Well, I can't really argue with that, can I?" He smiled, relaxing in his chair as he held onto her hand.

"Mm-mm," she shook her head, and he smiled to himself when her eyelids drooped a bit more. "Don't even try," she yawned.

He bent forward, and pressed a kiss to her hand to let her know he wouldn't.

She was watching him, her eyes lidded, when he straightened back up. "You should know," she murmured tiredly, "that I'm never going to be able to stand the smell of Chinese food again."

Ryan nodded, a smile turning up the edge of his lips despite himself. She could always make him smile, no matter what horrible things had happened. "Okay," he agreed easily, "no more Chinese."

"Pity," she mumbled sadly, as if he had decreed that without her consent. "I loved Chinese."

"You'll learn to love something else," Ryan told her, trying to keep his voice as quiet as possible, hoping she'd drift off between clauses.

She sounded wide awake, however, when she suddenly said, "I love you."

He blinked over at her, caught off guard at the quick and serious change in their conversation, too surprised to say anything.

"I just wanted to tell you again." She sighed softly, but he couldn't tell if it was from exhaustion or something else. "The last time, it… I know it came off desperate. I didn't want you to think I said it only because I thought we were going to die that night."

Ryan shook his head. "That isn't what I thought, Claire."

"I meant it. I meant what I said. And I've always felt that way about you, you know," she told him in a whisper. "I've always loved you. I was just too scared… All those years apart, I figured you wouldn't care anymore. And I—I didn't want to make a fool of myself."

He reached out for her hand, slipping his fingers between hers. "I care," he assured her softly. "I've always cared. I've just been an asshole about showing you, telling you. I'm sorry for that," he whispered a moment later.

She smiled at that, and he was happy, at least, that he'd given her that much. "You know," she whispered, turning their entwined hands this way and that as if they were a novelty, "I was in love with you long before I ever asked you to kiss me."

He nodded, remembering. He'd always kept that moment as a fond memory in his mind. It was one of the very few times where everything had worked out perfectly. Where he hadn't completely fucked up. "I was in love with you before that, too," he murmured.

She blinked slowly, staring down at him. Before she even asked, he knew what she was going to say. "Was it really love at first sight for you?"

Ryan closed his eyes.

"I'm just curious," Claire murmured. "I just want to know. Was he making that up, Ryan, or was he telling the truth? You didn't answer him."

"Yeah, because it was none of his goddamn business," Ryan snapped sharply. He groaned a second later, apologizing. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be a jerk, I just…" He sighed. "You know how Joe lies." Ryan sucked in a breath, and closing his eyes, he struggled with what to say. Finally, he muttered, "But he wasn't lying about that." His tired eyes rose to hers. "He's right about most things when it comes to me."

She nodded, digesting that. After a second, she questioned quietly, "But we don't have to worry about him anymore, right?"

Ryan shook his head. "No," he answered, "we don't." He had surprised himself—in all the anxiety of the past few days, he had hardly spared a thought for Joe. He wondered what it would be like now, not to have to worry about him ever again. He knew what Claire would say if he asked that question aloud: _Oh, you'll still worry._ It made him smile, to know that they knew each other that well, even after so many years apart.

"What?" she asked, catching the look on his face. "What is it?"

He shook his head, murmuring, "It's nothing," before reaching a hand out to touch her chin—the closest part of her face he could reach without straining the wound on his stomach. "I believed you when you said you loved me, all right? And I believed that you believed yourself. You've always said what you mean. I knew it wasn't a spur-of-the-moment thing, okay? It didn't come across like that to me."

Claire bit her lip. "Well, I… I was worried," she finally whispered.

"You can stop worrying," he assured her.

"Yeah, so can you," she murmured. Her tired eyes lit up a second later. "God, can you imagine? Ryan Hardy _not _worrying about something?" She grinned, and the laugh that escaped her was music to his ears even though it was at his expense. "What would you do with your days if you didn't worry about every little thing in every corner of the world twenty-four-seven? You'll have to take up at least twenty new hobbies to use up all that brainpower. Maybe even thirty!"

"Shut up," he muttered, trying to hide his smile as he tapped the side of her chin lightly with a finger. "And go to sleep."

"Hm, only if you stay," she murmured softly, still managing to keep her eye on him though her lids were half-closed. "Stay here with me."

"I'll stay," he promised.

"And no acting up," she whispered through a yawn, her eyes closing fully now. "I don't want to wake up and hear you've been kicked out for being rude and uncooperative to the nursing staff."

Ryan smiled at that—he was certain those would be two of the adjectives of choice that nurse Pam would pick to describe him. He suddenly had a very strong feeling that she and Claire would get along very well, and he hoped they never would have the chance to meet. "I'll try my best to act as in as possible," he told Claire patiently. "Now go to sleep, okay?"

"You better be here when I wake up," she warned one last time, and he knew if she could keep her eyes open, she'd be leveling an intense stare his way. Since she wasn't, he took the liberty of rolling his eyes at her. "Don't make me go traipsing around this hospital looking for you." She took a second to rub the side of her face with a heavy hand. Her eyes blinked open briefly to look at him sidelong. "Chasing after you is getting to be very tiring, you know."

Ryan smiled, catching her eye. "Yeah, well, I could say the same to you." He bent down to press a kiss to the back of her hand. "I'll be here, okay? Until you wake up, I will be here. I promise."

"You know what?" She smiled lazily, tucking her head into the pillow behind her head. "I actually believe that promise. You're getting better."

He smirked. "Do I get a gold star for not being intentionally deceptive?"

"I'll think about it," she mumbled with a smile before falling asleep.

He watched her until he dozed off, too, thinking that maybe hospital ICUs weren't such awful places after all.

. . .  
. . .

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much for reading. Reviews would be lovely! I'm considering this canon from now on. Suck it, Kevin Williamson.

PS: Expect a lot more out of this AU now that its got its foundation. I've got a lot of Joey-centric stories planned. :)

Again, thank you so much for reading! Reviews are most gratefully welcome!


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